Chekov Takes Care
by TribeGeneral65
Summary: Seemingly innocent Chekov takes charge to get Kirk out of a funk. Assertive!Chekov and Kirk likes it. Rated M for adult content.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I own nothing and derive no benefit from writing these stories except my own personal satisfaction and reviews and comments. The characters may engage in unprotected sex because it's the 23rd century, but 21st century humans on Earth should be careful and use protection. This is my first attempt at writing these characters, so your feedback would be most appreciated! Enjoy :-)

Ensign Chekov, Pavel Andreievich, sat on an examination table in sickbay. Now over a month into their mission, it was time for the _Enterprise_ crew to report for routine physicals, which the only-recently-turned 18-year-old ensign passed without difficulty. Although physically fine, Chekov was worried. Captain Kirk had not been his usual, confident, sociable self for the past few days, and Chekov thought that meant trouble. Out here, anything was possible, and a crew with a distracted captain could pay dearly. But it wasn't just concern for his own safety or the safety of the _Enterprise_, which he now considered home, that had Chekov worried. At first, he was almost glad that Kirk had calmed down a bit, and he even caught himself staring at the senior officer's brooding expressions a few too many times. But something about seeing those normally piercing, vibrant blue eyes with a such an uncharacteristically distant look eventually unnerved Chekov, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it and restore the playful, bold, and—yes, he had to admit—distractingly sexy Kirk he knew from the Academy.

"Um, Doktor? May I ask you a kvestion?" Chekov thought that Dr. McCoy would know what was weighing on the Captain. The two were thick as thieves, even despite the good doctor's penchant for excessive hypo-spray use.

"What is it, Ensign? I'm a busy man with all these physicals to schedule," replied McCoy, showcasing his famously impatient bedside manner.

Chekov paused a moment. "I vas vondering . . . eet ees about ze Keptin . . . ees he, OK?"

Dr. McCoy turned to the ensign. "Captain Kirk is fine, of course he is. He is just very busy running the ship. I mean, sure he hasn't met me for an after-shift drink in a few days, and he's been distant, and he needs to be able to open up to someone and relax, but . . ." Suddenly McCoy remembered he was talking to a junior officer about rather sensitive personal matters and snapped a quick dismissal to Chekov: "It's really none of your concern, Ensign! You're finished with your physical; you are dismissed to your quarters."

Chekov leapt up from his seat on the table and saluted. "Yessir, Doktor! Zank you, sir."

As he went back to his quarters, Chekov thought about what Dr. McCoy had said. _So ze Keptin needs to be able to open up to someone and relax . . ._ A sly smile burst across the teen's face as he proclaimed to the empty corridor—"I can do zat!"

Watching the weary Captain on the bridge the next day, Chekov's mind was finally made up. _He has to be in charge all of ze time_, he thought about Kirk. _Maybe he only needs someone to be in charge and take care of heem for a change_ . . .

Chekov's normally shy and innocent appearance led many to think of him as an adorable younger brother, but he was, after all, an 18-year-old boy, and not nearly as naïve or inexperienced as his colleagues liked to joke that he was. That was part of Chekov's strategy and appeal, after all; he had surprised a select few Academy cadets and crewmembers, male and female alike, with his skill and energy in the bedroom. He liked turning the tables on his partners—he never called them "conquests;" it was too . . . unilateral and disrespectful—and suddenly asserting himself, getting what he wanted and needed, and giving far more than his partners had imagined possible when they began, thinking they would lead him gently down a previously untrodden path. Anyone who took Chekov to bed expecting to corrupt him quickly discovered that Chekov was the one to do the corrupting, and that realization was made all the more delicious in contrast to his apparent innocence.

So the young ensign decided it was time to test his strategy on the ultimate target—Captain James Tiberius Kirk.


	2. Chapter 2

"Two teas, chai, hawt" said Chekov carefully to the replicator in the mess hall. He had learned the hard way that the computer voice controls on _Enterprise_ could be annoyingly finicky, and so pronounced his order precisely. Once the two steaming mugs were ready, he placed them on a small silver tray borrowed from the galley, grabbed his supply bag, and made his way to the Captain's quarters, taking care to check that his curly hair was properly mussed before knocking at the door.

Kirk heard the knock as he sat at the desk in his quarters, looking between two different data pads but unable to focus on either. _Relativity be damned_, sighed Kirk. _Even at warp there's never enough time to do all the work!_ He closed his eyes and hoped whoever was knocking would just leave him in peace. But the initially soft knock continued, growing more persistent.

"Yes?" said Kirk with a hint of agitation, pressing the comm button for his door lock.

Chekov nervously stuttered into the comm: "I am wery sorry for disturbing you, Keptin, it's Ensign Chekov, sir, but I thought you could use a little caffeine, da?"

Kirk actually half-smiled. _The boy was always so thoughtful_—no, he had promised to stop thinking of him that way, as a boy. Chekov was 18 now, and even before his birthday made it "official," Kirk knew he had seen and done things in the service of Starfleet that meant no one could call him a mere "boy" anymore. Kirk rose from his chair and went to the door, opening it to reveal Chekov standing there with his little tea tray. Even in his somewhat stressed and distracted state, Jim Kirk was still Jim Kirk, and a devious thought flashed through his mind that the only thing missing was a hint of a French maid uniform and the surprise at his doorstep would have been perfect. He quickly admonished himself—_Chekov probably doesn't even swing that way, hell, probably has never swung ANY way_—and gestured for the adorably tempting young officer to come in.

Chekov managed to play it cool as he walked into the Captain's quarters, but he had seen how Kirk's eyes fluttered up and down, taking him all in, even if for only a brief moment, and pondered what the notoriously imaginative Captain could be thinking about him. He handed a mug to the Captain: "Here, zees vill make you feel better. Russians inwented hot chai to cure anything, Keptin."

"Oh, why, uh, thank you, Ensign," said Kirk in mild confusion. He held the warm mug to his lips and sipped cautiously at first, but quickly found the spice and heat were actually quite pleasant. "Mmmmm. Chekov, this is delicious!" Kirk moaned, not even realizing he had referred to the ensign so informally.

"Zank you, Keptin. I hoped it vould help," replied Chekov, sincerely beaming at the Captain's compliment and use of his name rather than his title. It was true that when he saw Kirk, he was usually considering a half-dozen ways to ravish him, but aside from his teenage lust, Chekov held the greatest respect and fondness for Kirk. He was almost too afraid to try to continue with his plan, fearing he would ruin a friendship he treasured deeply, but the indulgent sounds of Captain Kirk enjoying his chai tea were so sinfully tantalizing that Chekov regained his nerve.

"Keptin?" Chekov began hesitantly. "I'm sorry, sir, but . . . I vas vondering . . . are you . . . are you alright, sir?"

Kirk paused for a few moments. It wasn't entirely appropriate to discuss his feelings and doubts with a junior officer—most captains confided such things to their first officers, if anyone, but he was _not_ going to talk to Spock like this—and, well, when had Jim Kirk ever avoided doing what he felt was right just because it wasn't appropriate or strictly in the manual? Plus, it was Chekov. Sweet, caring, puppy-eyed, intelligent, trustworthy, cute-assed Chekov. (Yes, he had noticed that last attribute, too). The two sat down on the sofa-like seat—mercifully provided by a Starfleet personnel person who thought such creature comforts belonged on a long-distance mission—and began to talk, each opening up more and even finding themselves drawn closer together on the soft cushions.

" . . . so I guess that's it, I really do think of you all as family now, and out here, I just haven't quite gotten used to the fear of command, thinking that any time we could be in danger," confessed Kirk softly, hanging his head a bit and looking at the floor, slightly embarrassed by such a profound confession.

Chekov realized it was even more important than he first thought to cheer up and reinvigorate his Captain. He put his hand gently on Kirk's shoulder and gave a light squeeze. The captain turned his face up again so they were looking into each other's eyes, bright blue into steady green.

"Keptin. You are much too hard on yourzelf. You have already done more than many officers in a whole career! And zhere is no one I trust more to take care of us and keep us safe than you, sir." Chekov's eyes pleaded with Kirk for a reply, and as Kirk began to smile, Chekov couldn't help but join in, his whole face lighting up with relief and happiness just as it had when he saw Kirk and Spock return safely to the bridge not all that long ago.

"Thank you, Ensign, uh, Pavel. Really." Kirk gazed at the young man before him, surprised at how intense such a simple touch felt when given to him by the junior officer.

Chekov saw his chance to turn the tables, or at least turn things up a bit and give himself and the Captain what it seemed they both desperately needed. He turned and pulled himself closer to Kirk, putting his lips right next to his ear.

"Now ze qvestion is, Keptin," he purred, "do you trust me to take care of you?"


	3. Chapter 3

Kirk gulped and chuckled in surprise. "What, uh, do you mean?" was all he managed to spit out.

"I vill take zat as 'yes,' Keptin. Lay down here on your stomach, and take off zat shirt," said Chekov as he motioned to Kirk's bed. Jim Kirk was not one to miss out an adventure, but even he was momentarily frozen in place by this request, which sounded an awful lot like a command. _What the hell_, he thought, _I need a break, and it looks like the Russian whiz-kid is up to something worth experiencing._ _I just hope he knows what he's getting himself into after tempting me for so long with those adorable eyes and bouncy curls and that ass in front of me on the bridge all the time . . ._ Kirk heard the sound of a bottle cap being opened as pulled his shirt over his head and laid down on his bed, pushing aside some stray clothes.

Once he warmed up the massage oil in his hands, Chekov bounced onto the bed and deftly swung his left leg over Kirk, seating himself astride the captain's firm glutes. Kirk let out a grunt at the sudden pressure, but he quickly gave way to contented moans as the ensign kneaded his back and shoulders expertly. The calming, intoxicating scent of the oil pervaded the room and Kirk's senses. The slow, methodical, almost lyrical movements of the massage contrasted sharply with Chekov's usually rapid motions while making calculations or plotting course adjustments—not that Kirk ever _stared_ at the young officer whose station was just in front of his command chair. Nope. Never.

"Oh, Pavel, that feels . . . mmmm . . . incredible! Where did you . . . ahhhmm . . . where did you learn to do this?" inquired Kirk. Kirk didn't realize it at the time, but the junior officer had also removed his shirt.

Chekov leaned forward, pressing his bare chest into the captain's now-relaxed back, and, with his warm breath ghosting over the captain's ear, whispered "Just because I am good veeth my brain does not mean I am not also good veeth hands, Keptin. Or other zings."

Kirk didn't think it was possible to be more aroused than at that moment, but he would soon be proven very, very wrong. He was hard and his cock ached, pinned as it was to the bed under the combined weight of the two officers. He needed more, but he was enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of giving up some control. Nonetheless, he couldn't resist a chance to return a phrase he had heard more than once himself, and asked Chekov: "Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Chekov?"

Chekov felt his cheeks flush a bit at this indication his plan was working, but kept himself together. "No, Keptin. I am not _trying_ to zeduce you"—he fished his hand beneath Kirk and squeezed his swollen cock for the first time—"by ze feel of zings, I am _succeeding_," stated Chekov with smug satisfaction. Kirk chuckled at the teen's lame joke, but his chuckle turned into a keen as Chekov squeezed again at the same time he shifted his weight, putting even more pressure on Kirk.

"Now, turn over, and lay wery still, Keptin," directed Chekov.

Kirk complied, taking in the sight of Chekov's smooth, taut chest and positively leering at the younger man who still straddled him. This time, Chekov began working with his mouth, licking and gently nibbling across Kirk's chest as he lay on top of the bigger man. Soon Kirk was squirming and moaning so much that Chekov sat up again and grabbed Kirk's chin so he was sure Kirk was looking directly at him: "I said, lay _wery_ still, Keptin."

Playfully, Kirk shot back—"Is that an order, Ensign?" The authority in the Russian's gaze and his secure grip combined with a firm "Yes" almost made Kirk shoot right then and there, but instead he gripped at the sheets and tried to stay as still as possible as Chekov continued his ministrations. That task became increasingly difficult when Chekov got out of the bed and slid off his remaining clothes, taking great care to present his pretty little ass to his Captain before returning to the bed and slowly . . . slowly . . . pulling down his pants and boxer briefs, letting the senior officer's cock spring free against his stomach with a satisfyingly fleshy slap. Chekov continued licking and kissing and nibbling; Kirk felt his skin was on fire with the soft, teasing touches but he craved more, and he was desperate as Chekov had skillfully avoided any contact with his straining cock.

"Ensign, ugh! . . . Pavel! . . . please!" begged Kirk, lifting his head up to see the younger man's face, but all he saw was the curly top of his hair before Chekov took his mouth off of the Captain's nipple and turned his lust-darkened eyes to meet Kirk's.

"Please vhat, Keptin?" he mused with a knowing smirk.

"Touch me."

Pavel rose onto his knees, still straddling Kirk, and from Kirk's perspective towering over him. Pavel began to tug at his own hard cock and let out a contented sigh. "Like zees, Keptin? Is zees vhat you vant me to do to you?"

"Yes! Please, Pavel. Pasha, please!" Somehow this informal, personal nickname sprung from Kirk's lips; he vaguely recalled hearing Uhura use it when she joked with the ensign, and hoped it would take effect. It did.

"Yessir, Keptin. Vith pleasure." Chekov said softly, but there was a fiendish look in his eyes, and Kirk wondered for a brief moment whether he was wise in asking for more from the clearly very talented and creative younger man. Chekov moved back a bit and settled on all fours with his face just over Kirk's leaking cock. _Just as they said; words don't do it justice_, thought Pavel seconds before licking from Kirk's balls to the tip of his overly sensitized cock and then swallowing the first few inches in one seamless motion. Chekov closed his eyes, focusing entirely on the satisfaction of finally tasting his Captain, then fluttered them open to see Kirk staring at him in ecstasy. Glad to see such pleasure on Kirk's face, Chekov was feeling generous. He pulled off just long enough to murmur to Kirk: "And Keptin?," said Chekov, grinning mischievously, "you may now touch me, too, sir."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Kirk was pulling him up, hugging him and kissing him fiercely. After a few moments like that, Pavel disentangled himself to resume sucking Kirk. Then he felt himself being turned around, Kirk guiding his knees to rest on either side of Kirk's head while Chekov's head remained at Kirk's crotch. In this position, Kirk finally got a taste of revenge as he used his tongue and fingers to begin opening the younger man's hole. Seeing the pink ring of muscle reminded him of the ensign's pink lips, which were now wrapped around his manhood. The glorious sensation as Kirk licked and fingered him made Chekov moan around Kirk's cock, squirming until he had swallowed nearly all of it. By this point, both men were so lost in lust that they could hardly think, and were content to remain in this position, awash in the intense sensations and blissful intimacy.

But Chekov was insatiable, and he was not about to let this end without having Kirk buried deep within him. Gasping for air, he broke off from Kirk's throbbing cock and declared "Now ees time for you to fuck me, da, Keptin?" With that and a devilish grin, he got up and grabbed another bottle from his bag. Chekov began to finger himself, making sure he was fully displayed before Kirk, who looked on in desperate anticipation. Finally relaxed and loose enough, Chekov covered Kirk's cock in the lubricant, and once again straddled Kirk, facing him so he could look at the Captain as he lowered himself onto Kirk's straining hard-on. Chekov groaned in satisfaction as he felt himself being filled and at the sight of the Captain's slack-jawed expression of disbelief and pure pleasure.

"How . . . ugh . . . where did . . . hmmm! . . . you learn that?!" blabbered Kirk as he watched the lithe young officer slowly pump himself up and down. Some barely-functioning sliver of his rational brain was still in delightfully shocked awe that innocent little Pasha had turned completely into a dominant sex-fiend.

Chekov sighed and flashed his signature smile, never breaking his pace. "I'm no wirgin, Keptin," he said, knowingly wagging his brows and curling his flushed lips into a grin before he bent down to kiss Kirk. There was such heated passion in the kiss that it passed between them like fire, each reveling in the fact that what he had desired for so long was finally happening, and that it was even better than he imagined.

After the fevered foreplay, Chekov riding Kirk's big cock was bringing them both near to the edge. Feeling that his orgasm was not long off, Chekov decided it was time to finish Kirk. Riding faster and harder, he broke the kiss and whispered into Kirk's ear: "Cum for me, Keptin. I vant to feel you cum."

Kirk couldn't hold back any longer after hearing such a command from the ensign. Seconds later, he half-moaned, half-screamed as he buried his face into Chekov's neck and shot deep inside him. Feeling the Captain swell and spasm within him finally pushed Chekov over the edge too, and he moaned out a string of Russian obscenities as he came all over Kirk's chest. He managed to keep riding Kirk throughout both of their orgasms, but his rhythm finally faltered and he collapsed alongside the senior officer, both panting and exhausted. Kirk turned and placed a gentle kiss on Chekov's cheek, twirling his fingers through the loose, sweaty curls atop his head, and Chekov draped an arm across Kirk.

"Let's save the cuddles for later, Ensign. We need to clean up first," chided Kirk with a grin. A groggy Chekov nodded. "Da, Keptin. Shower ees good idea." Kirk got up and spurred Chekov on with a playful slap across his ass. "Come on, Pavel," he called as he padded off to his private bathroom.

Chekov smiled and stretched, then bounced along in pursuit of the Captain.

"Right behind you, Jim."


End file.
